


Of Gods and Monsters, Edda 1: Bronze-eyed Angela

by bzarcher, solarbird



Series: Of Gods and Monsters [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Background Relationships, Bad people may do good things, But it is not some kind of relentless drive to hell, Conditioning, F/F, Good people will do bad things, Mad Science, Memory Alteration, Multi, Oasis (Overwatch), Original Character(s), Other, Talon Emily, Talon Lena "Tracer" Oxton, Talon!Emily, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This series is going to be pretty fucked up, Unreliable Narrator, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 10:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bzarcher/pseuds/bzarcher, https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarbird/pseuds/solarbird
Summary: Moira O'Deorain has won. With her three Weapons - the Changed and copper-eyed Tracer, the silver-eyed Oilliphéist, and golden-eyed Widowmaker - she has seized control of Talon. Akande Ogundmu is dead, his war thwarted. Gabriel Reyes is dead, his ever-shifting games of chess at an end. Sanjay Korpal is dead, his corruption excised - and more.However, even that is not enough, not if she and her peerless weapons are to remake the world, and humanity along with it. She will need an entire collection of tools, a pantheon so powerful that no one could hope to stop her. But just as no plans survive first contact with the enemy, no one person can truly hold back all the wills of all the gods, so sometimes, plans - and perhaps, even, those who make them - must change.To follow this story - a side-step sequel toThe Armourer and the Living Weapon-please subscribe to the series, not to this edda.Hesitant to read this? Find out more about the story here.





	Of Gods and Monsters, Edda 1: Bronze-eyed Angela

> _Bright-eyed Angela leaped, severe_  
>  _from blazing dawn, brandishing her spear;_  
>  _the nations routed by her savage cry,_  
>  _until she laughed, alighted in the sky,_  
>  _she put aside her helmet, shield and spear,_  
>  _and called, "At last - your gods are here!"_

The mission complete, Akande and Gabriel both finally dead, and her control of Talon assured, Moira smiled at Widowmaker and Tracer, her two incomplete but still oh so powerful weapons, frozen in place, deadlocked, wanting to kill her, but unable to move.

“I know,” she said, “you had a plan, for after - for now, really - but… I have a better one. I promise, you'll all be together, and so happy - just as happy as Emily. There's nothing to fear.” She turned to Oilliphéist. “Come, give me a hand.”

The doctor’s niece smiled. "Of course, auntie." She slung her rifle onto her back, and walked over to her spider, and her spider's lover. "Shhh, shh, shh, it's - you don't understand yet, but you will."

She leaned over a little, and kissed Tracer's forehead, looking into her despairing eyes, smiling, petting her head, taking her hand, nuzzling it. "I know, I know, you’re so afraid, I’m sorry for that, I hated doing it this way - I've really become quite fond of you, did you know? I hope you do. But it’ll be over soon, and you'll be so happy - just like I am. I’m not leaving you, I promise, I’m not betraying you - I’m _saving_ you. I swear. It’s for the best."

She leaned to her Widowmaker, and kissed her lips, gently, before holding her hand to her face, letting her feel her hand against her skin. "Love, love, don't worry. I know, it all seems frightening right now, but - remember, you did all this,” she gestured to herself, her upgraded body, so beautiful, so perfectly blue, “for me, and I am so grateful... and now I'm doing this, for _you_ , in return. Afterwards, you’ll understand.” She nuzzled against her lover’s face. “We will all - all three of us - be so very, very happy together."

Moira slipped over, popping a small capsure under one nose, then the other, and the two incomplete weapons slumped to the ground, caught, protected from their falls. “After we get them onboard, I’m going to see if I can raise Angela. I’ll give her my apologies about all of this fell out, and if we’re very lucky, I can convince her that I want to hand Lena over, back in Oasis.”

“She’ll never go for that,” Oilliphéist laughed, gently hoisting her lover’s unconscious body.

“Oh, probably not,” her aunt agreed, hoisting her soon-to-be daughter, in turn. “But I should try. Worst case, it should at least create a little confusion, and some uncertainty won’t do us any harm. I need time to call a board meeting and explain the new situation. Welcome to the board, by the way.”

“Thanks, auntie! Danielle too?”

“And Lena, of course - once she’s finished.” She shook her head and sighed. “Winston, gone. What a terrible waste of a brilliant mind. I’d’ve loved to have him on our side. I wish you’d let me do more in the first round of upgrades - we could’ve avoided that.”

“I know,” Emily agreed, worry in her voice. “And I’m sorry. But you can fix it, right? In Lena, at least.”

“Oh, of course,” Moira nodded, waving her hand, and stopping, for a moment. “Are you… falling for her?”

“I…” Oilliphéist smiled, a little, shyly. “I think I am.”

She hmmfed. “Well. She’ll be my adoptive daughter, then. Appearances matter. If we had Angela already, perhaps… but ah, no.” The geneticist allowed herself a smile. “It’s been too long since we worked together - I miss her mind, terribly. Soon, though.”

They stepped through the hatch of the nearby Oasis diplomatic flyer, and deposited their cargo carefully into two chairs. “Everything’s ready, back at the foundation - we shall head directly back, and get to work.”

\-----

“I can’t begin to express the depth of my regret,” the minister said to the doctor, over official ministerial channels. “This absolutely should not have happened, and no one - _no one_ \- could have desired this outcome. Unlike you, I may not have been his colleague for the last several years, and we didn’t keep up - but I thought of Winston fondly, and his death is a loss to science, and so, to us all.”

Angela Ziegler stared, impassively, at the minister, her face carefully neutral. “Yes, minister. It was a tragedy - one completely unnecessary, one that could have, and should have, been avoided.” Outside her office and out of sight, staff packed boxes, and bags, and gear, working to clear out the complex of the most critical of data and material, preparing to decamp.

“I couldn’t agree more,” the minister replied, softly, and with apparent sincerity. “Whoever was responsible… could not have acted knowingly, or even intentionally. I certainly cannot imagine such a crime being ordered. Particularly not by anyone who respects intelligence.”

“I would like to hope that was not the case,” Dr. Ziegler responded, still carefully neutral, keeping her cold rage out of her tone. “But, of course, neither of us can know what happened, now, can we? Particularly given the unreliability of eyewitnesses accounts, and of memory, in such chaotic situations.”

“True enough,” said the minister, and she sighed. “I would like to stop by, tomorrow - just myself and my aide de camp - to express my office’s official condolences. It comes at the request of the Prime Minister, so there will also be a media representative present.”

“I do not welcome this visit at this time.”

“I understand, but duty is what it is, and I am bound to follow. 10am?”

“I presume I will receive confirmation of this from the PM’s office?”

“I’m surprised you don’t have it already,” she replied, and the notice appeared in the doctor’s inbox.

“I see. Well. Tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow.”

She closed comms, and looked out at her reduced staff, frenetically at work. _Why did this have to happen during the holidays. So many people away, visiting family… there is absolutely no way we can be out of here before tomorrow morning._ She ran through inventories and schedules in her mind. _I **cannot** lose all this data, and these samples. Not if we’re to continue the fight._ Nervously tapping at her desk, she looked up a few additional reporters who had expressed interest in her work. _I’ll have to meet her… what else can I do? But I can, at least, insure it will be witnessed._

\-----

“Well,” Dr. O’Deorain said, sitting down opposite Dr. Ziegler’s desk, photographs taken, public condolences expressed, two photographers waiting outside, hoping for another shot with the rarely-available Dr. Ziegler. “Now that’s out of the way…”

“Why the hell are you here?” Dr. Ziegler demanded. “You have what you wanted. Korpal is dead. Deshmukh is dead. Ogundimu is dead. Reyes is dead. You have Talon, and you even have … whoever you have made out of Lena Oxton.”

“That’s exactly what I’m here about,” the minister replied, shifting in her seat. “Your evacuation is proceeding in a highly orderly fashion, I must say. I presume we’re being watched, and you’re being guarded.”

“Heavily.”

“Good.” She leaned forward in the chair, hands on her temples. “You may not believe this, but she is _still_ Lena Oxton. She is still herself.”

“After all the dopamine rewards she’s been receiving for violence? After all your _suggestions?_ ”

“A temporary expedience, necessary for what she had to do - for what _we agreed_ had to be _done._ And she is all but comatose with guilt, thanks to that disaster of Gabriel’s.”

“Liar.”

“No, the truth. And she is terrified of coming home, but she wants to hand herself over.”

“She wouldn’t let herself be separated from the other two, and you know it.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t say alone. But she still - they had a plan, did you know? To go off to one of Lena’s old safehouses, her, my niece, and Widowmaker…”

“She’s not your niece. Stop calling her that.”

“You still believe Gabriel, after what he caused in London? That was entirely his fault, and you know it. Check the family records.”

“We have. Half a dozen people in your organisation could’ve altered them.”

“...true. But, regardless - part of their plan was for us both to examine her at one of those safehouses, checking each other’s work, with oversight from the three of them, to keep us both honest. The safehouses are a bit out the window, but I could bring her here. Today. Unarmed. No accelerator. Bound, even, if you’d like. We could examine her together, as they wanted. I can show you how my advances actually function, so you’re no longer guessing. She doesn’t have to trust either of us, and she gets answers she desperately wants - as do you. Oilliphéist and Widowmaker can wait at the neutral ground apartment, and she’d retreat there, just as before.”

“How official would this be?” she asked, unable to shake a feeling of dread.

“As official as you’d like - within limits, of course.”

Angela thought about the offer, hard, still a little surprised she hadn’t just been arrested and dragged off by Oasis’s rather impressive police force. She wanted to grab at that little bit of hope being offered, but… they’d all grabbed one too many times already, and been burned, so badly, for it. “I… really don’t think that I can go along with this. Not now.”

Dr. O'Deorain laughed, bitterly. “Angela - I know this didn’t go the way you, or she, or any of us really wanted. But we have stopped a tremendously wasteful war. I have already called off literally a dozen destabilisation efforts, and thrown our support - subtly and not so subtly - behind de-escalation talks in half a dozen more hot zones.” She pulled up a news article on a padd, a surprise cease-fire in Tasmania, between Omnic and Junker factions, and showed it to her former colleague. “See? Can we not de-escalate this, as well?”

She stood, as Dr. Ziegler thought, reading the article, and walked over to a replica antique microscope the doctor had by her bookshelf, a display piece, touching it, lightly. “I remember when you told me how you won this. A student paper, wasn’t it?”

“And also my first published study. You know that.”

“I do.” The minister turned back to the doctor, walking to her desk, sitting on its edge, next to her former colleague. “I truly did not want Winston dead. Neither did Oxton. They weren’t even supposed to be there - they lied to me, saying they were scouting a location for the move against Akande. Everything that happened was…” she shook her head, leaning over, a little too close, “...such a tragic waste. Can’t we try to salvage what’s left?”

“No,” Dr. Ziegler said, after just a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Ah,” the minister said, sadly. “I was afraid you would say that,” she said, slumping a little. “Well - I can’t say I didn’t try.”

“Then I’ll be seeing you off?” she said, a little relieved at the minister’s apparent surrender.

“I know the way,” O’Deorain said, as she pinched a small but intensely powerful paralytic against the doctor’s neck. “I’ll let myself out,” she continued, as she dropped a translocator into the immobilised doctor’s lap, the device hidden from cameras by the height of the desktop.

“I will see you again soon - under more pleasant circumstances, I hope,” the minister said as she stepped through the doorway, closing it behind her. She nodded to her press attaché, and apologised to the remaining photographers - the earlier pictures would have to do, Dr. Ziegler had to take a call with a shipping company, part of the laboratory remodel. And then, as Minister O’Deorain walked out of the building in front of cameras - otherwise alone, except for her attaché - the good doctor simply…

...vanished.

\-----

“No,” Angela said, flatly. “You can stand down. Everyone stays on payroll, but don’t move completely back in - this will be a good opportunity to remodel, and update some equipment. Essential gear only, and… let’s keep labs C, E, and H empty. We’ll need them for staging.”

Dr. Ngcobo started at Dr. Ziegler through the screen, from his position at the head of the staff table, dismayed. “Doctor... are you _very_ sure about this?”

“I am,” the lead scientist replied, as Widowmaker stood, off camera, unhappy, frowning, Tracer beside her, also unhappy, also frowning.

“You do not seem yourself,” Michael Ngcobo said, determinedly. “And you simply... vanished, shall we say, after meeting the minister a few days ago. It is _most_ irregular.”

Angela smiled, vacantly, tiredly. “I’ve been... “ She shook her head, slowly. _What have I been… oh, yes_. “The visit was a cover - I slipped out the cargo elevator, while everyone else was distracted. I’ve been in continuous negotiation with the PM directly, as well as with Dr. O’Deorain, with no sleep to speak of, and we’ve, we’ve set up some new ground rules. It will take some time to work out the rest of the, of the, of the, of the agreement, but… I am convinced we will have one.”

“I am hardly certain that…”

“I’d also like you specifically to join us at the negotiations,” Dr. Ziegler said. “You’re the only other scientist at the lab who knows… the full situation, after all. Dr. Masri, you can take over the move logistics, yes?”

“What? Uh. Of course,” Dr. Masri responded, as Dr. Ngcobo glanced at her, and then back to the screen.

“I… see,” he said. “When?”

“Tomorrow.” She swallowed. “Tomorrow would be good. We’re getting an early start - 9am, at the Minister of Genetics’s personal office.”

Dr. Ngcobo leaned back, looking into Dr. Ziegler’s blank, blank eyes. “Very well, doctor. I will see you in the morning.”

“Thank you, Michael. And again - I’m sorry for the dramatic exit.”

“Not at all. Until tomorrow, then.”

“Goodbye,” she said, and the screen went clear.

“Well,” Dr. Ngcobo said, to the surrounding staff. “That was… interesting. I can’t tell anyone what to do, here. You’ve all heard Dr. Ziegler’s instructions.”

“She did not sound well,” Dr. Masri said. “That… she sounded _very_ strange.”

“I agree.” He stood. “I should get an early night’s rest. If you do not mind, I will leave you to your assigned duties.” _How much can I say?_ he thought, pausing, just for a moment. _I have to tell them something, before I flee..._ “How and whether you choose to pursue them, and… whether you take this moment to continue your pursuit of opportunities elsewhere... is up to you. Given the uncertainty of the current situation, I would suggest the latter.”

“Of course.” The younger doctor looked down at her hands, and back up at Dr. Ngcobo. “The equipment belongs to her institute. Her own data, her own samples… all that is hers. It should all come back. And I - I was born here. This is my home. I will stay. But everything else, and every _one_ else…” she looked around, gaze circling the table, “that is, as always, an individual decision.”

“At least we’re all still on payroll,” the lead technician joked, weakly. “That means we’ll get our New Year’s bonuses… I hope…”

“Small condolences,” said the head of immunology research.

“But condolences nonetheless,” noted Dr. Masri. “Traffic is light - particularly, for some reason, to the airport. How odd. Good luck, Dr. Ngcobo.”

The neurologist bowed, slightly, to his colleague, as he left. “Thank you. And good luck to you, as well.”

Not far away - not far away at all - Lena Oxton watched Moira O’Deorain and a nurse direct the semi-conscious Angela Ziegler into a wheelchair. “This … this isn’t right,” the teleporter said to her counterparts.

“She plans to use her again, a bit more finished, in another week,” Emily said. “I’m not convinced it’s a good idea.”

“It’s _not right_ ,” Lena insisted, flatly. “I remember bein’... only half-made.” She shuddered. So much fear. So much sadness. “It’s _terrible_.”

“It was terrible for both of us,” Danielle agreed, voice low.

“Mum!” Lena shouted, deciding, suddenly chasing after Dr. O’Deorain, Dr. Ziegler, and the nurse. “Mum! We need t’talk.”

\-----

Tracer’s head spun ‘round, as she heard Angela moan in her bed, next to her, just the slightest bit, a whisper of sound, and the teleporter beamed, happy, and relieved.

“Oh, oh, finally!” she said, tapping comms. “Em, Danielle, mum - she’s waking up!”

She waited, patiently, or as patiently as she could, given who she was, as Angela’s eyelids opened, slowly, just a little. “Oh, Ange, I’ve missed you, c’mon, wake up…”

“...Lena?” the doctor croaked, softly, her voice weak. “I… aren’t you… where am I? Aren’t you… afraid of... me? I thought I remembered you… being...”

Tracer laughed her happiest laugh. “Ah, no, doc - not anymore. Never anymore.” She picked up the angel’s hand, and squeezed it, tight, but not _too_ tight, and held it to her chest for a moment.

Angela looked, confused, at her friend, her, her wife’s… daughter. Adopted daughter. Of course, yes, something’s strange in there, but, no, she remembered, Lena Oxton, Omnic war orphan, adopted by Moira as a pre-teen, not always on base but often enough, joined the RAF, and then, and then the Slipstream, and gone, but then back, then… and she tried to talk a little more, but her throat, _so dry_ , and she coughed.

“Oh, I’m sorry! I forgot! Here, I’ve got some spray mist, and then a straw, okay?”

The doctor nodded, letting Lena wet the inside of her mouth, just a little, then a little more, enough to feel less closed off, enough to try to swallow, and succeed, and then she sipped, gently, at the bottle, swallowing more, feeling so much better, so quickly, and sitting up. “ _Oh_ , that is good.”

“Can I take a peek?” her young friend asked.

“A… peek?”

“Your new eyes. I bet they’re brilliant.”

“My eyes are… new?” Angela opened her eyelids a bit more, halfway, and Lena gasped at the sight. “I… cor blimey, luv, they’re beautiful. I never knew bronze could be so bright…” She chuffed a little bit of a laugh, “bronze-and-bright-eyed Angela…”

“That’s,” the doctor blinked, “That’s Athena, the goddess, not…”

“That’s _you_ ,” she said, holding a mirror up for her doctor.

“Oh…!” she said, in a whisper, in a daze. “...it _is_ me…”

Moira’s voice - a brief conversation with the nurse outside - drifted in from the hallway. “Where’s… where’s...” There was a wisp of fear that she didn’t understand, until O’Deorain appeared at the door, expression open, cool, but with a hint of adoration not completely hidden in her gaze, and the fear was gone. “So, Angela - you’re finally back with us?”

“Yeh, mum, she is - she just took a sip of water. She’s swallowing well.” Oxton laughed. “She thought I’d still be afraid of her - like we wouldn’t’ve fixed _that_ already.”

“Shh,” the geneticist said. “She’s still new. Don’t confuse her.” She sat down next to her dear wife, hand gently against her jaw, and the doctor nuzzled her palm, just a bit. “There we go,” she whispered. “How do you feel, Angela?”

The doctor shifted, a little, in the bed, and took a deep breath. She felt strong, she felt healthy. She felt.... “I’d… I’d felt so afraid… I remember… but now...” She blinked, and found her arms responsive, quick, and she rubbed her own arms a little, gently, then around her eyes, and then, she reached forward, and Moira took her hand in her own, and nuzzled into it, just a bit, and Angela smiled, a frisson of comfort running down her spine. “Oh, that’s… I feel…” She felt her mind fuzz, relaxing into it, so… so lovely… and she blinked, thoughts again clean, and clear.

“Why am I in bed? I have a laboratory to run. The minister is... oh. That’s you. That was yesterday.”

“Six weeks ago, actually,” Moira said, lowering the doctor’s hand, but still holding it. “Do you remember?”

“Oh… oh! I’m… yes. Yes, of course. The remodel. But… you had to… sedate me? Six weeks. Six weeks? Why?”

“Some upgrades take longer than others, and _someone_ insisted we do them all at once,” she looked sharply at Lena, who looked as innocent as possible, which was pretty innocent.

“Bein’ half-formed is awful, Ange,” she said. “You remember - I know y’do - how scared I was, yeh? It was _terrible_. I wasn’t gonna let mum put y’through that.”

Angela took in a sharp breath. _Oh, oh, yes, of course, **that’s** why..._ And she nodded. “I, I, yes, I do. It was awful - you were so sad, it was frightening.” She reached over, and took Lena’s hand, squeezing it. “ _Thank you,_ ” she said, and the teleporter grinned.

“But Angela, please, tell me,” Moira said, taking Angela’s hands back from Tracer. “How do you _feel?_ ”

Dr. Ziegler leaned forward, smiled, bronze eyes fully open, at last, sharp and flashing, and she kissed her wife. “I feel fine, you idiot. Why am I still in bed? May I get up now?”

Dr. O’Deorain laughed, delicately. “Of _course_ you may, dear. Be careful, though. I’ve kept your muscle tone together for you, but your nanites were an absolute adventure to work around safely. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

“Literally!” Tracer giggled.

“Please,” the angel snorted - “how long has it been since I had to _step?_ ”

Dr. Ziegler glided out from under the blankets to hover in a standing position by the bed, and stretched, reaching almost to the ceiling, from just above the floor. _Oooh, that feels **wonderful**_ , she thought, her nanites telling her all was well - better, even, than well. Superlative. She shook her shoulders, feeling herself fall together, as she saw Widowmaker and Oilliphéist standing beside each other, further back in the room. “Ah,” she beamed. “There you are. It’s good to see you both, so clearly, at last.”

Danielle smiled, with her perennial reserve, and Emily grinned widely, with her utter lack of the same. “Good to see you, too, doc,” she said, silver eyes warm. “Welcome home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Strap in, nerds, this is gonna get weird.
> 
> To follow this story, [subscribe to the series via this link](https://archiveofourown.org/series/972024), rather than to the individual edda.


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